


Ill Fortune or (The Unfortunate Birth, and Subsequent Lamentable Life of Hypetia Amell)

by SidheLives



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Dragon Age Headcanons, Gen, Mage (Dragon Age) Origin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:01:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25910989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SidheLives/pseuds/SidheLives
Summary: Ripped from her home in the Free Marches at the age of six, Hypetia Amell has always considered herself unlucky, a legacy of ill fortune inherited from her mother which followed her across the Waking Sea. The best she could hope for was to live peacefully, cloistered and bored for the rest of her days. Her life veers off this expected course however, when she crosses paths with a Grey Warden who offers the promise of freedom and purpose.
Relationships: Amell & Duncan (Dragon Age), Amell & Jowan (Dragon Age), Amell & Morrigan (Dragon Age), Female Amell & Leliana (Dragon Age)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 11





	1. Out of the Tower

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will be an anthology series of sorts, following Hypetia through the events of DAO and beyond.   
> A little black winged birdie tells me that the rating will escalate in later chapters 😉

_ Stupid Jowan.  _

_ Maker-cursed idiot Jowan.  _

_ Lying sack of horse testicles Jowan _ .

Hypetia looked back across the lake at Kinloch Hold. It had been her home for thirteen years, and Jowan had been her friend all that time. Maybe that was the reason: thirteen was an unlucky number wasn't it? Maybe it had been unavoidable, this calamity: destined, preordained, written in the stars even before her birth. If she could have seen the disaster coming, could she have avoided it? She'd never had much interest in divination, but perhaps it would be prudent to change that. It  _ was _ said that bad luck ran in the Amell blood, after all. It seemed unlikely that the ill fortune passed down from her mother would suddenly run out, not when it was enjoying such success.

"Hypetia." Ducan's voice broke through her ruminations. 

She turned wide, lucent blue eyes to where he stood beside a pair of horses. "I'm sorry?" He had been speaking to her, but her own tumultuous thoughts had drowned out his words.

"I asked if you've ever ridden before." He said, his deep voice tempered with patience.

Hypetia shook her head. "No." It was not exactly a truthful answer. She had travelled by horseback as a child, but sitting in a Templar's lap as  _ they _ rode was not what Duncan had meant.

He nodded thoughtfully. "I thought not. It is not a problem, the mare has traveled tethered to my mount for several weeks with no trouble, I doubt the weight of a slight mage will change that." He patted the smaller animal's flank. She looked more like a pony than a horse, brought along to carry supplies rather than a companion based on the numerous packs, which Duncan had begun to redistribute between the two horses. 

Hypetia found her attention drawn back to the spire and the vast expanse of water which surrounded it. Jowan had made it off the island, the Templars would have quickly brought him back if he had not. A shiver went down her spine as she imagined him plunging into the icy cold depths of the lake. Her eyes skimmed the surface of the still water. He had made it across, somehow. Jowan had never been particularly athletic or strong, but she supposed that when you were running for your life you found the strength to keep going. Despite the still fresh sting of his betrayal and the anger roiling beneath her skin, which she doubted would ever fully dissipate, Hypetia felt a sliver of relief that he had gotten away. No matter what else Jowan was, and he was many things (bloodmage and moron being the two at the forefront of her mind), he was her friend. Her first and closest friend, even if they had drifted apart as teenagers. It was difficult to reconcile the acute fury, bordering on hatred, she felt for him with her memories of their shared childhood: their shy introduction as young children, studying together as they grew older, fumbling, uncomfortable embraces as adolescents. They had been each other's first kiss, though the infatuation had burned away almost immediately, their attraction born from their proximity. She found herself oscillating between vindictively hoping that his idiocy would lead to a painful death in the wilderness, and chiding her own cruelty for thinking such a thing.

"You are troubled," Duncan said behind her.

She started slightly, having been so buried in her contemplations that she had not noticed him coming to stand beside her. "It— It has been a very long day." She said with a sigh. 

"I understand. You were close with the boy, I take it?" His arms tucked behind his back and shoulders straight, Duncan was the image of stoic civility, but there was a softness in the tilt of his head and the line of his lips that tightened Hypetia's chest and threatened to bring tears to her eyes.

"He was my friend, or I thought he was." She closed her eyes tightly, swallowing around a lump in her throat. "I'd rather not discuss it, if you don't mind."

"Of course." He let silence hang for a moment after he said this. To Hypetia this silence felt like an invitation to speak, not just in the moment, but whenever she was ready. It felt fatherly, in a way her own father had never had a chance to be. Thinking of her father caused her lips to twist into a frown. Duncan continued. "We should make haste. The army gathers at Ostagar already." Hypetia responded with a curt nod and followed him to where the horses waited. Duncan had moved his saddle to the smaller animal, she saw, his own mount carried only saddlebags and a blanket where it had once been. He seemed to see her examining the situation and volunteered an explanation without prompting. "Your inexperience riding necessitates the use of a saddle. Not to mention that due to your robes you will need to ride side-saddle, which is difficult bareback, even for an experienced rider. If the opportunity arises on the road I will procure a second, but I would not bet on such a chance."

_ Particularly not with my luck _ , she thought. Hypetia was impressed by his forethought and touched by his consideration. Glancing down at her narrow hemmed skirt she agreed with his assessment, riding astride in such a garment would be uncomfortable and indecent, if possible at all.

"How do I—?" She turned to face Duncan, her back to the horse, wondering how she would even go about getting up on the thing.

"Let me help you," he cut her off, his hands on her waist, lifting her petite frame onto the saddle. 

_ She was six years old, and her father was lifting her onto the horse that would take her away from him forever. There were tears in his eyes, but he didn't yell and scream like he had when Grace and the twins had been taken away. His voice shook as he held her tiny hands in his. "You be good, Pet. Be so good my little one. I love you so much." _

"That should do. Do you feel steady?" 

Hypetia rushed to wipe her eyes before Duncan could see the flood of tears that filled them. "Yeah. Feels fine." She said brusquely, looking away from him.

"You may want to hold onto her mane to help with balancing. If you can bend your front knee up and turn forward that will help as well." If Duncan had detected her distress he did not acknowledge it, his tone businesslike as he provided the instructions. She did her best to follow them, the task giving her something to focus on other than the memory of her father's anguished expression. Duncan mounted his own horse as Hypetia adjusted her position. "Ready?" He asked her and she nodded to indicate that she was. The animal's mane was coarse and felt like rough rope. It was easy to grip, which she was thankful for as Duncan gently nudged his horse forward and her own followed dutifully behind. The movement jostled her and she felt her balance wobble, fists tightening to maintain an upright position. Recovering quickly Hypetia chuckled slightly at the slip, and looked up to see a near imperceptible curl on Duncan's lips as he looked back at her. "You will get used to it. Once we arrive at Ostagar it may be worth finding yourself some breeches. There's likely to be a lot of riding in your future." Duncan offered the advice genially, but the words rang in Hypetia's ears with the weight of prophecy.

The spire of Kinloch Hold grew smaller behind them and the world stretched out ahead, full of possibilities which had been impossible daydreams for a newly Harrowed mage. Hypetia breathed in the wild, untasted air deeply and felt the reality of her situation settle around her shoulders like a mantle. She was a mage, not an apostate, and yet she was free. While she had not felt chafed under the yoke of her sentence, to live in isolation within the tower for the rest of her life, it was always there in the back of her mind: the knowledge that she was a prisoner, no matter how comfortable the cage may have been. The quiet of the world surprised her. Living in close quarters with dozens of other apprentices had meant that there were always voices somewhere, Mikhalea had even talked in her sleep. The lack of chatter was unsettling and made everything from the scenic vistas to the roll of the horse beneath her feel even more alien. The prickling silence stretched on, burying a splinter of aimless dread deep in Hypetia's gut. It was a relief when, as afternoon stretched into dusk, Duncan broke it.

"Do you mind if I ask you some questions?"

"What about?" She asked, turning her eyes from the brilliant sunset to look at him.

"About yourself. Apart from your name and Irving's comments regarding your skill I don't know much about you." Duncan did not seem like the kind of man who would speak idly to fill the air, he was genuinely interested. 

Hypetia fidgeted, hands twining into the horses mane. People in the Circle didn't ask about each other's past much. Those in charge knew their stories, or as much as they cared to at least, and apprentices rarely had happy beginnings. She had quickly learned it was kinder not to ask. "What do you want to know?"

"How old were you when you came to the Circle?"

"I was six."

"That seems very young. Do you remember your life before living there?"

He was backlit by the burning horizon so she couldn't make out his expression, but his voice was sympathetic. "Some. I remember my father and our house in Markham primarily."

"Markham, so you're originally from the Free Marches?" His chin raised, interest apparently peaked by this revelation.

"Yes. I was born in Kirkwall and lived for a time in Starkhaven before Father moved us to Markham." The names rolled from her tongue easily, like reciting historical data points, because that was all they were to her.

"And all by the time you were six, very interesting. How is it you came to reside in the Fereldan Tower if you lived in the Free Marches?"

That was the big question, the one everyone asked when they found out where she was from. "The Chantry doesn't like housing family members in the same Circles, I don't know why. I have siblings in all three of the Free Marches' Towers. Fereldan was the next closest." Her answer was one of those that taught people not to ask. She heard as well as saw Ducan deflate at her words, his keen interest sabotaged by the tragedy that was her family's misfortune.

"Four mages in a single family?" He didn't attempt to disguise the shock in his voice.

"Five actually. They didn't separate my twin brothers, last I knew they were still together at Ostwick."

"That's—" He stopped himself, examining Hypetia's calm expression. "I'm sorry. I did not intend to bring up such a sorrowful subject."

"No need to apologise. I barely knew my siblings, I never even met my oldest brother, and I've had a long time to come to terms with it."  _ Thirteen years _ she thought again, unnecessarily.

Duncan's attention drifted up as he seemed to consider this."So you've had no contact with anyone in your family since you were six years old?"

She shook her head. "None at all." He didn't respond, eyes trained on the horizon. It was nice to speak to someone about her family, not just to fill the unaccustomed silence but to acknowledge their existence verbally. She hadn't talked to anyone about her childhood since Jowen when they were children sharing their miserable histories in the darkened apprentice hall.

"When Ostagar is behind us, when the Darkspawn are driven back and your training is complete, it's possible you could have the opportunity to seek them out." Ducan had remained silent for so long Hypetia had thought the conversation over, starting slightly at his words. She blinked at him before studying her hands contemplatively. It was a course of action she had never considered, due to the fact that it would have been impossible. Although that wasn't exactly true was it? She could have written letters to the other Circles, or asked the First Enchanter to reach out on her behalf. Correspondence would likely have been monitored, but it wasn't against any rules. While she may never have had the opportunity to see or converse with her siblings she could have made contact, or at the very least attempted to. She chewed her lip as a wave of guilt hit her. Thirteen years. Fausten would be almost thirty, did he even know she existed? Grace, Tristan, and Artair would remember her, surely, but did they wonder about the baby sister they left behind in Starkhaven? Did they know she was a mage like them? If as a Warden she could go where she pleased why not try to find them? Maybe she could even find her father, if he yet lived.

"I—" her voice was dry like paint chipping from old furniture. She cleared her throat and began again. "I think I would like that." 

Duncan smiled at her, the sun now low enough that she could see the way it made the skin around his eyes wrinkle. He didn't strike Hypetia as someone who smiled often, and she felt touched that he had spared one for her. "First we must get there. It will likely be four days of riding. I must confess I am glad to have company for it."

"I'm glad to be your companion." She was. Riding across Lake Calenhad on a rickety skiff with the man, she had been undecided on how she felt about the strange diversion her life had taken in being recruited to the Wardens. How steep would the inevitable fall be, in what was undoubtedly another addition to an already exhaustive list of downward turns of fortune? She considered the possibility that Duncan's arrival had not been the herald of misfortune she had anticipated, but an unexpected reversal of fate. _ Hope _ . It was an unfamiliar feeling for Hypetia. She was a realist. Things could always, and often did, get worse, and struggling against fate only made it grip you tighter. Hope was for imbeciles and children.  _ Like Jowan _ . 

In the moment however, she was inclined to ignore the foolishness inherent in optimism and savor the fact that she had something to be hopeful about.

Maybe that idiot Jowan had managed to do something worthwhile in his selfish, fear driven lunacy.

_ Perhaps _ , she thought, as a smile curled her lips,  _ her bad luck had finally run out. _


	2. And Into the Fire

_ Alistair dropped his shield and leapt onto the ogre's chest with a deafening cry. His blade sunk deep into the creature's chest with a visceral squelch. He rode it's body down as it toppled backwards, pulling his sword from its flesh only to punge it in again. The ogre roared, arms flailing, then the sound was cut off, replaced with gurgling as Alistair stabbed again, his blade ripping into the creature's throat. The arms ceased their thrashing and it at last lay still. She stared wide eyed at him, his face and armor dripping with steaming, vibrant blood. He pushed away from the thing, breathing ragged and legs unsteady, and turned to see her stricken face. _

_ "The beacon!" He called, pointing behind her with his red stained sword. "We've probably missed the signal, get it lit quickly." _

_ It took her a moment to register his words. She was in shock, she realized. Shaking off the daze clouding her mind, she nodded and turned on her heel to face the beacon's tinder. Her tongue felt heavy and fat, fighting against the incantation she needed for fire, and her fingers didn't seem to remember the necessary motions. She pushed against the resistance with all her willpower. All she needed was a spark. She felt the magic slide through her at last, directed by her hands and words to the waiting kindling where it burst into flame. She sighed with relief, arms relaxing to her sides and shoulders slumping. "We did it." She didn't have the energy to disguise the surprise in her voice. _

_ "We did it!" Alistair repeated as he stepped up behind her and clapped her on the back. His triumphant smile managed to chase some of her horror back and she smiled as well. _

_ Then a familiar, haunting scrabbling echoed up to them from the stairway. They barely had time to turn towards the sound, weapons coming up, when the arrows began falling on them.  _

_ The guardsman gasped and choked, falling to the ground as one took him in the throat. The king's soldier took three tightly grouped shots to the chest and went down without a sound. She screamed as pain exploded in her left thigh. She looked down to see ten inches of shaft sticking out of the epicenter of the pain. Alistair caught her with one arm as her leg collapsed under her, using his sword to deflect the projectiles as best he could. "No, no, no. Stay up." He said to her, eyes dancing between the encroaching darkspawn and her face. "We need another fireball or lightning storm, or— Maker, anything!" _

_ Swallowing hard, she pushed her feet back under herself, biting her lip against the tearing pain caused by the movement, and thrust her hand forward, a barrier coming up in front of them as another volley hit, arrows glancing off to land harmlessly at their feet. A nightmarish cackle spilled across the stone floor to their ears and she screamed again as her barrier exploded into lancing shards of magic which sliced at her hand and face. "An emissary!" She shrieked unnecessarily, conjuring a burst of lighting and using her staff to direct it to rip through the darkspawn. The smell of singed darkspawn flesh told her she'd hit the mark and she sighed thankfully. The sound caught in her throat as a sharp pain hit her square in the chest. Time seemed to slow as she looked down at the arrow shaft, lodged directly between her breasts. The staff rolled from her hand to clatter to the stone floor, the sound reverberating through her skull. She felt confused, there wasn't enough shaft showing, only the feathered tail was visible but that would have meant that it had gone all the way through her, and it didn't hurt badly enough for that to be true. She looked up at Alistair's horrified face and opened her mouth to say as much, but another two arrows struck her: one above her right hip and the other just under her right breast. Instead of words, blood bubbled up to spill from between her lips and she gaped, lungs unable to take in air. _

_ "Fuck." Alistair pulled her tight to his side, deflecting another arrow with his blade. "Don't die. Do you hear me? Just hold on, just hold—" his words cut off with a grunt as an arrow caught his knee and he toppled backwards, pulling her with him. She landed on his chest. He was so warm, too warm, or was she too cold? The blood soaking into her robes felt warm. Why was she so cold? The inane chattering of the darkspawn was getting closer and Alistair wasn't moving, why wasn't he moving? Her lungs were burning and dark spots clouded her vision, she needed to breathe. She gasped for air but inhaled the blood pooling at the back of her throat instead and choked, airless coughs wracking her chest. _

_ Then everything went black. _

Hypetia's eyes shot open. She was drenched in sweat, and yet couldn't stop shivering. Her breath came in shuddering, panicked gasps. Where was she? Where was Alistair? Had they lit the beacon in time? Above her was a roof, but not that of the tower of Ishal where she had fallen unconscious.  _ Died.  _ Her mind corrected. She had been bleeding out, breathing her own blood instead of air, racing heart pushing the life out of her body. Survival should not have been possible.

"Calm yourself." It was a woman's voice, strangely familiar, but Hypetia instinctively pulled back from it, head snapping around to look at the dark haired woman. She groaned at the sudden movement, it seemed to reawaken her mind to pain, and her entire body fiercely ached. The woman continued speaking, seemingly ignoring Hypetia's frantic response to her voice. "Mother will be pleased you are awake at last. I have not often sensed concern from her, but she seemed to have it for you. I wonder why that is."

"Morrigan?" Her name came to Hypetia's tongue more readily than she would have expected considering the circumstances of their initial meeting. She winced, attempting to sit up, catching sight of her chest and stomach as she did. She was nude apart from extensive bandages wrapping her from where the first arrow had stuck in her left thigh up to her right shoulder, where she had no memory of receiving a wound. The image conjured excerpts from textbooks on Nevarran culture to the front or her mind, descriptions of mummification and the binding of the dead to be buried. Her eyes felt uncomfortably wide and her hurried, shallow breaths sped even more.

"Here, drink this. It will help calm you." Morrigan said, pushing a steaming, earthen mug under Hypetia's nose. She took it with shaking hands, trained by years of living surrounded by healers to down whatever loathsome draughts were presented to her with the promise that she would feel better once she did. Emptying the cup, she took a deep shuddering breath. Perhaps it was her mind creating the expected effects, but she did feel calmer. The thundering of her heart slowed and she was able to breathe without gasping. Her hands still shook and she couldn't seem to relax the muscles in her face, but it was a start. Morrigan observed this growing stillness with a disinterested expression. "Better?"

Hypetia nodded, blue eyes still too wide. "Morrigan, what are you doing here? Where is here? Why? How am I—"

"Not dead?" The woman cocked her head, a smirk teasing her lips as she plucked the cup from Hypetia's fingers. "Truly, I do not know. Your wounds were… extensive. If I had been asked I would have said you were already dead and left you for the carrion birds. Luckily, it seems, I was not." A shudder crept down Hypetia's spine, Morrigan's words straying treacherously close to her own macabre thoughts. 

"Lucky me." The words were accompanied by a bitter chuckle which grated against her throat like glass shards. Just like she had been  _ lucky _ to survive the Joining. The luck at play did not strike Hypetia as the good kind. She had been fooling herself thinking that something as simple as becoming a Grey Warden would wash away the Amell curse. "What happened? Was the beacon lit in time? Do you know?"

"I do not know that it mattered. The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field. Those who remained were slaughtered by the darkspawn. Your… friend is not taking the news very well."

Every word from Morrigan's lips spun more questions into existence in Hypetia. Her mind raced, and her heart began to speed again as her thoughts rushed perilously over pitfalls which would have sent her reeling into hysterics, focusing instead on the facts the witch was telling her. "My friend? Alistair? He's alive?"

"Yes, and quite agitated. His wounds were superficial so he has been hounding me incessantly for days." She crossed her arms, brows pulling together in irritation.

"Days?" Hypetia reeled. "How long has it been? How did we escape the tower?" She needed details to cling onto before she was completely adrift in the sea of revelations.

"Mother rescued the two of you from the top of the tower. You have been unconscious for four days."

"Rescued us? How?" Hypetia couldn't stop the stream of questions pouring from her lips.

"She transformed herself into a giant bird and plucked you from atop the tower, one in each massive talon." Hypetia couldn't tell if Morrigan was joking or not. Her stoic expression however indicated that she was completely serious.

"Were there  _ any _ survivors of the battle? The King? The Wardens?" Surely more than just be her and Alistair had survived.

Morrigan shook her head. "Whatever survivors there were have been finished off or dragged away by the darkspawn by now I wager. You and your blubbering companion are the only ones who escaped such a fate. And of course the man who left the King to die I suppose."

Hypetia rested her forehead against one hand and concentrated on keeping her breathing steady as the avalanche of information threatened to return her to the gasping, flailing state she had been in upon waking. She blinked rapidly, her eyes flicking back and forth along the ground as she thought. Teryn Loghain had abandoned the King to die. Had their signal come too late and retreat was the only viable option or was it deliberate regicide? What happened now that the Fereldan Wardens were no more? Were the Orlesian Wardens still coming?  _ How was she alive? _ Her mind kept returning to the question, like an idle tongue worrying a sore tooth. Loghain's betrayal didn't make sense, but she could accept it. Morrigan's story of a bird assisted rescue was asinine, but still fit better with reality than her own survival. The Chantry taught that coming back from death was impossible, even the mortalitasi of Nevarra, death mages — _ necromancers— _ , could not truly return life to the deceased. She felt like herself, not a crudely reconstructed facsimile: she experienced pain, reacted to stimuli, and all her memories were intact, although if they weren't would she know? She was assuredly alive, which meant she couldn't have died, but the idea that she had, the certainty in her bones that her spirit had departed her body, troubled her deeply. She needed to not focus on it, think of something else. The Blight. With no Wardens in Fereldan the Blight would spread past it’s borders unchecked. Without a King the country was weak, weak enough for Orlais to reclaim their lost property perhaps. That would be bad. They had to do something or the entire world would crumble in upon itself. She needed to speak to Alistair. 

Straightening up, Hypetia found Morrigan was watching her, face impassive and arms crossed. She must have been watching her the entire time as her mind had juggled all of the newly provided information.  _ What must my face have been doing I wonder _ , Hypetia thought. “I feel I should thank you, Morrigan.”

“Oh, I— You’re welcome.” Hypetia’s gratitude appeared to catch her completely off guard, arms dropping limply to her sides. “But twas my mother who healed you. I did naught but hover at her elbow and prepare tea.”

“I’m still grateful to you for the part you played, and for answering my questions.”

Morrigan floundered, unease an incongruous emotion on her proud features. “It was truly not a bother. Now that you are awake, Mother would like to speak to you. And I’m sure your pet idiot would be pleased to see you as well.”

“I don’t think Alistair would appreciate the nickname.”

“I don’t think I care much what the imbecile appreciates or does not.”

Despite everything Hypetia smiled. She liked Morrigan. Her cynicism helped Hypetia feel more grounded, kept her from being swept away by emotion. There were certainly worse ways to wake up than in her company, dead for example. Hypetia carefully swung her legs off the side of the bed, grimacing as every slight movement pulled at her healing wounds. They felt weeks healed rather than days, and she wondered for a moment how Morrigan's mother had achieved such a feat, but she had no deep knowledge of healing magics and recognized that such a result may be commonplace in the practice. As she hesitantly pushed to her feet, her left thigh objected with painful spasms. Hypetia gritted her teeth and took several shaking steps as Morrigan stood by, trying very hard to look like she was unconcerned. “Where are my clothes?” Hypetia through clenched teeth as she toddled in a small circle, the repetitive movement slowly convincing the muscles in her wounded leg that it’s protests were in vain.

“Here.” Morrigan indicated a chest at the foot of the bed. “All of your belongings should be there, though some may have been dropped in your flight from the tower.”

_ Flight _ . So she had been serious after all.

Hypetia looked down at the chest and took a deep breath. There was no painless way to approach retrieving the contents. If she were to crouch the wound in her hip and thigh would protest and possibly put her on the ground if the pain was bad enough (and she highly suspected it would be) and if she were to bend the wound in her chest and ribs may prevent her from reaching even it's lid. She looked at Morrigan, who was watching her with a keen, intelligent interest. The witch was aware of these limitations and was curious to see how she would circumvent them, Hypetia reasoned. Morrigan was an observer, she had done it in the wilds before the battle as well. She watched, studied, and learned until she had enough information to strike with a near supernatural precision. It was smart; but Hypetia was not above sacrificing her pride to get results. "Could you help me? I'm afraid I won't be able to empty the chest myself. I suspect I may also need assistance dressing, if it's not too much trouble."

A slight raise of Morrigan's eyebrows was the only sign of her surprise at the request. "Of course. How foolish of me." She smirked as she crouched beside the chest and began removing clothing and weapons from it, a subtle indication of Hypetia's subversion of her expectations.

  
  


Half an hour later, Hypetia was dressed with a staff strapped to her back. She felt better, in part because she was no longer naked, but also because the various movements required to equip underclothes and robes had stretched her long stagnant muscles, prying some of the aches free from their deeply entrenched recesses. None of her necessary gear had been missing and her robes had, miraculously, been made whole and clean. She didn't remember them being so tight however. The chances of her going up a size in the four days she lay comatose was unlikely, even with her luck, and she wondered if they had perhaps shrunk in the mending process. Between her injured thigh and the narrowness of the skirt it was difficult to walk and she found herself considering Duncan's advice to seek out trousers. Thinking of the man so casually made her flinch internally. It was strange to think that someone could exist one moment and be gone the next. Hypetia had never before had someone close to her die; the nearest approximation she had was the disappearance of her mother when she was two, and therefore had no memory of, and her siblings being taken by the Templars when she was four. Her memory of that event was colored by her father’s anger and desperation, she had no recollection of the hollow disquiet she felt now. It was not the time for mourning, she decided resolutely, swallowing hard against the bubbles of emotion which had begun to rise in her throat. She needed to focus on the present, and presently she couldn’t walk in her skirt. "Morrigan, do you have shears? Or a knife would do." The witch raised a curious eyebrow before retrieving a pair of treacherous looking shears from a nearby work table and placing them into Hypetia's open hand. Sitting down she carefully bent at the waist and used the shears to slit her skirt up to the hip on both sides.

"An interesting modification," Morrigan laughed. "Are you not worried about your modesty,  _ Circle Mage _ ?"

"Around Alistair?" Hypetia raised a dubious eyebrow. Alistair was many things, but lecherous did not seem to be one.

"Around  _ men _ . Are you not worried about the lascivious eyes of feral mongrels inpuning your polished chastity?"

Hypetia laughed, she couldn't help it, the notion was too absurd. A stab of pain from the wound in her ribs cut the sound off with a sharp, hissing inhale and she was forced to breathe deeply, hand on her side, to regain her composure. Morrigan was studying her with a skeptical expression. "Morrigan, I was locked in a tower, in close quarters with dozens of boys and girls, from the time I was six. Do you  _ really _ think I am so naive that some farmer's wandering eyes would leave me flustered or insulted?"

It was difficult to read Morrigan's expression, but Hypetia had the distinct impression that the woman was surprised and just a little impressed. It seemed everyone, including witches of the wilds, had perceptions of what life in the Circle was like and, so far, everyone's assumptions had been incorrect by varying degrees. Morrigan's imagined, virginal halls were as ludicrous a notion as Alistair's assumption that his Templar training would intimidate her.  _ Alistair _ . That's right, he was waiting for her, and had been waiting for four days. Hypetia pushed to her feet and handed the shears back to Morrigan who half-hazardly tossed them back to the work table and raised an eyebrow. "Finally ready then?" She asked, crossing her arms again.

"Yes, I believe so." Hypetia did a final check, running her hands down the front of her robes and taking a few tentative steps. She was pleased with the alteration to the skirt, it no longer clung to her pained thigh and moving was much more comfortable. Morrigan gestured to the door with a nod indicating that Hypetia should proceed ahead of her. She opened the door, but made no move to step out of the hut, her feet stalling as she caught sight of Alistair.

He looked terrible. 

His eyes were red rimmed and bleary, possibly from crying or from lack of sleep, though she suspected both. He looked clean, but his hair was unkempt, he had a shadow of stubble covering his previously clean shaven chin, and his armor lay in a heap beside him, the plain tunic he wore was untucked and dishevelled. Her chest tightened, the feeling having nothing to do with her wounds. He was alive and, apart from his bedraggled appearance, looked no worse for wear. She could see no bandages on his person and his movements betrayed no limping or other injury related compensations. He looked tired, frustrated, devastated, and above all worried but not hurt. Having already been told that he lived and that his wounds were minor, Hypetia had not anticipated the wave of relief that came with seeing him. She had known the man for less than a week, even including the four days she had been unconscious, and yet the joy she felt knowing that he was alright surpassed anything she had ever felt for her peers, Jowan included. He had suddenly become her only family, bound by blood in more ways than one. She took a deep shuddering breath. That would take some getting used to. 

“Are you not going?” Morrigan asked incredulously.

“I am. I—” She took another deep breath. “I’m just not accustomed to this.”

The witch raised an eyebrow. “To what?”

“Worrying about someone."

"Twould be more prudent, I think, to worry about yourself."

She shrugged. "Probably. Foresight has never been my strong suit. I've been considering taking up divination."

Morrigan laughed, a warm cackle that rolled up from her chest like treacle. The sound altered Alistair and Morrigan's mother, who stood nearby, to Hypetia's presence. The older woman's expression brightened, features backlit with pride. "You see? Here is your fellow Grey Warden. You worry too much, young man."

The anxiety fell away from Alistair's face when he saw her, shoulders relaxing and balled fists loosening. "You— You're alive!"

_ I am _ , Hypetia thought, stepping out into the late morning light.  _ As luck would have it _ .


	3. The Best Laid Schemes of Mice and Men

And then there were five.

Six if you counted the dog.

Hessarian sat contentedly at Hypetia's side, his massive head resting on her lap, and she idly scratched his neck. Morrigan had been mostly correct about Lothering. It  _ had _ been a beneficial stop. In addition to the coin and supplies they had acquired they had gained invaluable information: Loghain had declared the Grey Wardens traitors and placed the blame for King Cailan's death squarely on their shoulders as well as a bounty on their heads, Ark Eamon was ill, ill enough that his knights were chasing rumors of miracles across Thedas, and that while the Wardens were still respected by many, most were not willing to openly support them due to Loghain's proclamation. And of course, there were the additional companions who had joined their cause. 

Leliana was more than she appeared, to be sure. Hypetia doubted that Lilly, or any other Chantry sister she had met, would jump so readily into a deadly bar fight and display such prowess. It was not just Leliana's ability which intrigued her. She had watched the mild-mannered woman thrust a blade into a man's neck without hesitation and casually wipe arterial blood onto her Chantry robes. Leliana had killed before, she was sure of it, but had left that life behind in favor of a semi-cloistered life. Hypetia wondered what circumstances had led her to a town like Lothering. There was also the matter of her vision from the Maker: perhaps she was mad, that would go a long way to explaining her desire to join their doomed venture.

Sten was less concealed in his history. He was a warrior, a killer, but clearly not without honor. He had been prepared to die, locked in a cage in Lothering, for what he had done, but offered no explanation for it. Hypetia found herself preoccupied with the enigma that was the Qunari, both the individual and his people. She had studied the lands and inhabitants of Thedas extensively in the Tower, but the availability of materials on the Qun were sadly lacking.  _ Heretical _ , or so they said. Despite her ambition to learn, he was tight-lipped and seemed to find her inquiries obnoxious. He was a puzzle to be solved, one that would require quiet examination and a great deal of patience. Alistair was opposed to such long term studies, evidenced by both the suspicious glances he cast the Qunari and his explicitly telling her so. They could not however afford to refuse any assistance they could find, and so Sten remained.

Morrigan had been wrong that their passing would go without notice. In hindsight, Hypetia knew it would have been better not to spare Loghain's men. The Teyrn knowing that they yet lived put her, Alistair, and anyone else who followed them in danger. She had only spoken to Loghain for a few moments in the camp at Ostagar, but she knew his tale: he was the Hero of River Dane and he did not give up victory easily. If he saw the Wardens as a threat, and it was clear that he did, he would not rest until they were eliminated. Hypetia chewed her lip as she considered. They would need to move quickly to escape drawing the attention of his tactical eye. They must seek aid, and soon.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Alistair appeared at the corner of Hypetia's vision. Hessarian lifted his head and excitedly ran to the man's feet as he approached, accepting generous, strong-armed coddles from him. "We should probably decide where to head from here." He went down on one knee, attention ostensibly focused on scratching Hessarian's neck and ears. "We probably don't want to stay in one place too long considering the whole "enemies of the crown" thing."

_ Coincidence _ . "I've been considering that. I think we should approach the Dwarves first."

Alistair's hands paused in their movement over the dog. "The Dwarves? But why? Redcliff is much closer." It had been obvious from the beginning that Alistair's preferred route would be to Redcliff first, but he seemed hesitant to push the matter, recognizing perhaps that his inclination was born from his familiarity with the Arl. Hypetia had no such bias (she told herself, willfully ignoring her hesitance regarding returning to Kinloch Hold) and sought to examine their situation and quest with a broader eye.

"Alistair, think about it: we've been declared traitors to Fereldan and accused of regicide. It is our word against that of Teryn Loghain, a man widely revered and respected. Even if we go to Eamon now, who's to say he would actually offer us support? Remember the Templar and the Mother in Lothering? They believed us but weren't willing to support us because of what Loghain is saying." She folded her hands on her lap.

"Well, I mean—" 

"Warden Amell makes an excellent point," Leliana cut Alistair off as she joined them, having clearly overheard their conversation from her previous position near the fire. "Arl Eamon must consider his people and his lands. Openly defying the Regent could endanger his holdings, and would not be done lightly."

Alistair stood up and Hessarian, seemingly sensing he would get no further attention from the man, trotted over to sit at Leliana's feet who obligingly pet his head. The man crossed his arms and looked thoughtful. "Alright, I see your point, but how does going to Orzammar first help us?"

"Gaining support from the Dwarven King legitimizes us. It shows we're not just chaos instigating rabble." Hypetia spread her hands, demonstrating how simple the logic of her plan was.

Leliana nodded briskly. "It would certainly make a statement of intent, which Arl Eamon and the Circle could then back without the implication of supporting simply the individuals Loghain has condemned, meaning the two of you of course."

"I'm understanding the thinking, but how are we to get to the Frostbacks? We don't currently have the coin or supplies for that kind of journey." Slight wrinkles appeared in his forehead as he frowned.

Hypetia smiled. "I've thought about that too. I think it best we head for Denerim, the city is large enough we could find some quick work and earn enough money for the trip."

Alistair's jaw dropped. "Denerim? You mean where Loghain is currently sitting planning our grisly deaths? Are you mad?"

Hypetia resisted rolling her eyes. She doubted Alistair would react well to such a dismissive gesture and, she reminded herself, his reaction was natural. Running into a building burning was not the typical method of escape, after all. "Yes. I mean no, I'm not mad. It  _ is _ mad to go to Denerim, which is why Loghain would never realistically consider us doing so."

"So busy watching for you that he doesn't notice you underfoot. Clever." Leliana gave Hypetia an impressed smile.

Hypetia sat up a little straighter, her posture inflating with a boost of pride. "We wouldn't be there long. By the time rumors circulated that we were within the city, we would be gone."

Alistair sighed, running one palm down his face as his shoulders slipped down in resignation. "You're right. It's a good plan." He conceded.

Hypetia pushed to her feet. "Excellent. North to Denerim at first light then."

"Suppose we should turn in then." He shrugged.

"I'm going to check in with Morrigan first." Hypetia looked to the small fire the witch had built for herself, far away from that which the others shared.

Alistair grimaced. "Why?"

"Don't worry yourself with my reasons, just get some rest." She patted his shoulder as she passed him and heard the tinkle of Leliana's laughter behind her as she crossed the metaphorical no man's land from their simple camp to where the ebony-haired woman sat, gazing into the red-black heart of her fire. Hypetia didn't call out a greeting, she simply sat down a few places from the woman and joined her silent ruminations.

After a few minutes, the weight of Morrigan's attention settled on Hypetia's shoulders and she looked up to meet dark eyes. "What purpose can this visit serve, hmm? Come to study me the way you do the barbarian?"

Hypetia shrugged. "You are equally worthy of study, I will admit, but no, not this time. I just wanted to sit with you awhile."

Morrigan snorted doubtfully. "Obfuscate your intentions all you wish, I will sort out what it is you seek in good time."

"Is the idea that I may simply appreciate your company unfathomable?" Hypetia asked.

One of Morrigan's eyebrows twitched imperceptibly higher. "Not unfathomable, but truly improbable."

""Truly improbable" is a good blanket term to describe my life." Hypetia chuckled.

Morrigan mutely examined her face for several heartbeats. "How did you come to be here, Circle Mage?"

"I hear rumors of a giant bird carrying my lifeless corpse into the wilds, but those can't be confirmed," Hypetia smirked.

Morrigan's lips turned to mirror the expression. "I was more interested in prior to that. How did you come to take the Grey on the eve of such a battle?"

"I chose to trust a fool," Hypetia said after a moment, eyes drifting to the distance over Morrigan's shoulder. "It ended about as well as you would expect. Duncan, Alistair's mentor, happened to be in the Tower and offered me an alternative to a life of mistrust or Tranquility, so I took it."

Morrigan laughed low in her throat, like the purr of a great cat. "Trusting fools seems to be a weakness of yours." She glanced towards the rest of their party, surely seeking Alistair with her eyes, then looked back to Hypetia's face. "What became of  _ that _ fool?"

"I don't know, and I have not decided if I care," Hypetia said, frowning. The events at Ostagar and what followed had stolen thoughts of Jowan away from her mind and now returning to him, were still conflicted.

"Ah." Morrigan offered knowingly. "I take it this fool was  _ special _ to you?"

"Not like you're thinking," Hypetia corrected. "He was my friend, one of very few."

"Such entanglements often end in a similar manner I have observed. Best to avoid them, in my humble opinion." Morrigan said flippantly, idly tossing twigs into the fire.

"I read once that the only constant of mortal behavior is failure. I've found little evidence to the contrary in my time outside of the Tower." The fact should have made her sad, but it elicited little emotional response in her at all. She had studied history enough to know that the fallacy of the human ego always reared its head to undo all past or perceived successes. Hypetia felt Morrigan's gaze on her again, the intensity of her scrutiny as palpable as the crackle of the fire and the cool evening breeze. There was no animosity evident in her inspection, her gaze carrying the weight of curiosity and little else, but as it stretched on Hypetia found it wearing on her. 

Long past Hypetia's expectation of further conversation had ceased, Morrigan spoke. "Perhaps you will prove the radical variable in forgoing such failure."

Hypetia laughed, a bitter hollow chuckle which carried no mirth. "Unfortunately that pyre was lit long ago. The best I can hope for is to keep from pulling the world down with me." She pushed to her feet and dusted her robes off. "We'll be heading to Denerim in the morning."

"I suppose I have no choice but to accompany you." Morrigan grimaced.

"You always have a choice, Morrigan. I will not hold you here nor run crying to your mother if you choose to depart." She said seriously.

Morrigan seemed taken aback for a moment by her tone, hesitating before speaking again. "I shall keep that in mind. Thank you."

"Have a good evening, Morrigan. If you remain I will see you in the morning." She turned toward the camp.

"Yes, see you in the morning." Morrigan echoed, and Hypetia smiled as she departed the miniature camp. Morrigan would stay, for the time being at least. Hypetia had no misgivings regarding the witch's loyalty, it was not for the Warden's sake she would remain, but to indulge her own curiosity. Once she was sated, or grew bored of their adventure, or perhaps when true danger emerged Morrigan would be gone and it was doubtful any but Flemeth herself would be able to find her when she did.  _ Smart. Smarter than us in any case _ . Hypetia noted. Until such time she was pleased to share the exotic woman's company: this dark, enigmatic creature whose life had been so different from hers but had led her to the same crossroads. 

She wondered if Morrigan could be persuaded to teach her how to become a bird.


	4. Often Go Awry

They settled for the night in the shadow of the Frostback mountains, occupying the campsite vacated by Felix de Grosbois. Leliana had come back from hunting with rabbits and Sten, who had turned out to be excellent at both dressing and preparing all manner of creatures, had spit and roasted them in a matter of minutes. As they sat and stood around the campfire eating, Hypetia twirled the acquired control rod between dexterous fingers, her expression thoughtful.

"Oh no, I know that look." Alistair sounded worried.

Hypetia blinked disorientedly at him. "What look?"

Leliana chuckled. "Your "scheming" look. Alistair thinks you're far too clever for your own good."

"Men always think women are too clever." Morrigan threw Alistair a dark look to which he looked offended.

"What are you thinking about?" Leliana redirected the conversation back to Hypetia before Alistair could come up with a retort.

She studied the control rod in her hand for a moment longer before replying. "I think it would be a worthwhile detour to go and find this golem."

"Pray tell, how long a detour would this be?" Morrigan raised an eyebrow.

"Honnleath is South of Redcliff, probably a week from here." Alistair volunteered. All three women gazed at him curiously and he shrugged. "I was raised in Redcliff, I wasn't completely ignorant of the area around the city."

"No? I suppose the ignorance came later." Morrigan smirked.

"Why do you think such a stop could be beneficial, Hypetia?" Leliana once again cut in before the two could descend into bickering.

Hypetia cleared her throat in an attempt to wash the smile from her lips. She cared for and respected Alistair immensely of course, but that did not make it any less amusing when Morrigan's quick tongue caught him like a lash. "If this is truly the control rod to a functional golem, returning such a device to the Dwarven kingdom could open many doors for us in Orzammar. The secret of their creation was lost centuries ago and as such, they are highly valued by the dwarves, considered more precious than gold or even lyrium."

"Presenting such a gift would absolutely endear you to the King." Leliana nodded. "Catching flies with honey is always preferable to using vinegar. I think even Morrigan would agree."

The witch rolled her eyes but did not, Hypetia noticed, argue the point. "And if it is not functional? If the rod is a fake or the monstrosity immovable?"

"I agree with Hypetia. It's worth a shot." Alistair gave her a firm nod.

"I expected you would require a bit more convincing than that," Hypetia admitted, a smile of pleasant surprise tugging at her features.

"I doubted you about Denerim and you were right, it was the best move. I'm not going to doubt you again." He said firmly.

Hypetia felt her back straighten and her chest fill with pride. It was becoming almost a familiar sensation, and she didn't know what to make of that. These people trusted her and relied upon her (except for perhaps Sten who seemed to regard her with the same disinterested contempt he showed for most things). They didn't know anything about her, about her history, her family, her curse. It would be wise, she reasoned, to warn them, to tell them that it was only a matter of time until her luck ran out once again and all of them suffered for it. She opened her mouth to do just that, but the words caught in her throat. It felt good to be trusted. She had been hoisted into a position of authority she had done nothing to earn and was succeeding in it. Nothing in her life up to that point filled her with such self-confidence, not even the completion of her Harrowing, and things had been going well. As Alistair had said, going to Denerim had been bold but profitable, and they had met little enough resistance on the road to the Frostback mountains. Perhaps dying (for Hypetia could not convince herself that she had not died in the Tower of Ishal) had reset her fortune, or the touch of the taint had purified her blood of the Amell curse. Both prospects seemed unlikely, but she could not deny that things had taken a distinctly positive turn since waking up in the Wilds and despite how she reminded herself that being hopeful was a questionable decision, she couldn't seem to stop.

"Any objections, Morrigan?" She shook herself from her introspective reverie to meet the witch's scowl.

With a heavy sigh and a rolling shrug, Morrigan got to her feet. "I have none, for the time being. That I cannot think of reasons we should not do something does not mean we should." She sauntered away from the group and their fire to her distant bedroll without so much as a backward glance.

Leliana giggled behind one hand, turning sparkling eyes to Hypetia. "She also thinks you are too clever for your own good I think."

"Should we tell Sten the updated plans do you think?" Alistair glanced to the outskirts of the camp where Sten and Hessarian sat side by side. Sten practiced meditation, or something similar, for hours every evening. The dog, being near as taken with the Qunari as he was with Hypetia, had begun joining him in the evenings, sitting by his side and displaying more self-control than any would have guessed he contained.

Hypetia yawned. "In the morning perhaps, I don't want to intrude on his ritual. Besides, I suspect he doesn't much care where we go."

"He does seem peculiarly aimless, doesn't he?" Leliana cocked her head to one side, resting a finger chestly on her chin in thought.

"Probably just waiting for the perfect moment to kill us all," Alistair grumbled. Hypetia gave him a withering glance and he scoffed. "What? I'm just saying."

"I would hazard Leliana is equally as likely to murder all of us as Sten." Hypetia raised an eyebrow at the woman. Alistair laughed so hard his head fell back, so he did not see the coy smile and flash of acknowledgment which passed through the redhead's features at the words.

"Smart and funny, right Leliana?" Alistair elbowed Hypetia gently in the side and she forced a laugh.

"Absolutely." Leliana winked at the other woman as she stood and stretched. "Goodnight you two. I expect I will see you bright and early."

"Just like every other day," Alistair groaned. "I can't wait to sleep in."

Hypetia snorted. "When was the last time you slept in, Templar?"

"When I was ten years old. I expect it will happen again eventually, or at least that's what keeps me going."

Laughing, Hypetia called for Hessarian and made her way to her own bedroll. The mountain air was chilled, but the Mabari curled against her helped to chase it off, and she pet him gently, listening to the deep boom of his heartbeat as she fell asleep.

A week later Hypetia stood in the middle of the abandoned city of Honnleath staring up into the glowing eyes of an unbound golem, wondering how this newest development tallied in her ratio of good to bad luck.

"It has very large eyes, doesn't it? It is a wonder they do not roll out of its tiny little head." Stone lips grated gently as they formed words, granite brows pulling down over narrowing eyes as the golem looked down at her.

The golem, Shale, it had said it was called, was nothing like Hypetia had been expecting, nothing like her books had described. To say the golem was broken would be accurate but wrong on a number of levels, it simply did not behave in a manner congruent with its nature: it had free will and more than a little personality. None of this was bad (Hypetia liked Shale based on the truncated time she had known it, or them rather. She didn't feel right referring to the entity as "it" knowing that they were sentient, not even in her own thoughts) but it was so antithetical to what she had prepared for she felt dazed by the shock.

Alistair guffawed. "Can't very well give that to the dwarves, can you?" Hypetia's head snapped around to glare at him. He winced, looking to Leliana for support, but she and Morrigan's faces were mirrors of Hypetia's and he withered under the combined expression.

"Give me to the dwarves?" Shale sounded amused at the prospect. "Was this its intention upon activating me?"

Hypetia did her best to wipe the scowl from her face. "Yes, it was. That is of course out of the question now."

"Why would a squishy mage like it simply give away something like me?" Shale did not sound offended by the notion, nearly curious, which Hypetia found incredibly refreshing.

"The dwarves highly value functional golems. We require the cooperation of the Dwarven King for our mission and I had hoped to gain his favor by returning it… er— you, to him." Hypetia explained. There was no sense in lying to them, both because there was nothing to gain by doing so and because their hands were bigger than her head and she did not wish to aggravate them.

"I see. What is the mission you speak of?"

Alistair spoke up from behind her. "Hypetia and I are Grey Wardens. We're gathering an army to stand against the Blight."

"Attempting to, you mean." Morrigan corrected, hands on her hips. She gave Hypetia a look that was clearly the visual equivalent of I told you so.

"You will be fighting darkspawn?" Shale asked, seeming to consider.

"Many. And likely many humans as well, as we have managed to make more enemies than friends recently." Hypetia gave them a nod.

"And I could help squish all these irritating enemies, could I?"

Hypetia was taken aback by the question and stammered. "Well— I, um, yes. You could." Maker, she sounded like Alistair. She cleared her throat. "If you chose to accompany us, which you are under no obligation to do."

"Under no obligation." Shale chuckled. "I do like the sound of that. I will accompany you, Grey Warden, until I decide I'd rather not anymore."

"Wonderful!" Leliana beamed. "I think I can speak for all of us when I say it will be a pleasure to have you along."

Hessarian barked in agreement.

Morrigan scoffed.

Hypetia glanced between Leliana and Alistair's pleased expressions, wearing her own unsteady smile. This was not the outcome that she had expected, but it was, she decided, a positive. Why then did she feel a knot of unexplainable anxiety in her gut, a lurching sensation much like looking down from a great height and feeling your stomach turn summersaults, she wondered.

"How long will it take us to reach Orzammar, Alistair? I am eager to see the fabled Dwarven city." Leliana bubbled with excitement.

"Thirteen days, I'd wager." He responded. "This time of year the weather shouldn't give us too much trouble."

Thirteen days.

Hypetia's stomach lurched again. That explained it.

She saw Morrigan studying her face and forced a more realistic smile. "I'd wager we could do it in twelve," she tossed out, earning a prideful smile from Alistair.

"If anyone asks me to carry them, I shall crush their skull," Shale said firmly. Leliana and Alistair's smiles fell slightly, diluted by uncertainty, wondering if the golem was joking. 

Morrigan laughed derisively, hand pressed to her chest. "Oh, this will be amusing."


	5. Since the House is On Fire

Someone was screaming.

The piercing sound was everywhere. It bounced around the stone walls, ceiling, and floor of the chamber, reflecting and redoubling until it was cacophonous, drowning out even the thoughts in Hypetia’s head.

Alistair grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and shook her. “Hypetia! Hypetia, it’s alright. It’s dead.” His tone was gentle and his eyes worried.

_ It was her. She was screaming, _

Hypeita gasped, clasping shaking hands over her mouth, and the sound suddenly dropped out. Alistair wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pulling her into his chest. “Just breathe, okay? Everything is alright now, just breathe.”

She tried to do as he said, inhaling deeply, but all she could smell was the acrid, coppery tang of blood and beneath that the putrescent stench of rot. She pushed away from Alistair’s embrace and fell to her hands and knees, bones cracking as they hit the stone, and vomited. She continued to retch long after her stomach was empty, coughing and choking on stomach bile.

Hypetia thought back to the battle of Ostagar, to Morrigan describing the Darkspawn dragging survivors underground. The horrific reality of their fate settled over her and she sat back on her heels, her head falling back. The bewitching horror of the Archdemon's song and the way its perverse beauty had called to her was still fresh in her mind, along with the revulsion she felt at her own awe of it. The Broodmother had been too much. As its image pushed to the forefront of her mind Hypetia felt something snap inside of her. She would have screamed again, but her throat, ripped raw by acid, would not comply. Dry, gasping sobs wracked her body. She couldn’t think, couldn’t move past the memory of the creature, and Hespith, and the other unknown victims. It was impossible to say how long she sat there, tears leaking from the sides of her eyes to stream down her neck, arms hanging limply at her sides. Someone took hold of either side of her head and she found Morrigan’s golden eyes boring into her.

“Hypetia Amell.” The witch’s voice was hard. “Take a breath.”

She hadn’t even realized she had been hyperventilating. With effort, she succeeded in taking a deep, shuddering breath. The gleam of the witch's eyes replaced the haunting images dancing behind her eyes and she was able to take another breath, then another.

“Good. Now stand up.” She released Hypetia's head to take her hands. Hypetia clung onto them hard and struggled to her feet.

The horror was still there, just beyond the edges of her vision. She gripped Morrigan's hands tighter and focused on her eyes; something real, something to keep her grounded. "I thought I knew, I thought I understood. My books. My books never—" she stammered, voice breaking.

Morrigan shushed her. "Books, however thorough they may have been, could not have prepared you for this. But we do not have time for hysterics, no matter how warranted they might be. We must find Branka and get out of this place, do you hear me?"

Hypetia nodded shakily. "I understand." She swallowed hard, forcing her hands to be still. Morrigan was right, of course. Every moment they did not push ahead gave the Darkspawn time to encircle them and cut off any chance of escape. The sudden thought of never again seeing the sky, of dying forgotten in the Deep Roads, of becoming one of  _ them _ spurred her into action. Her head snapped up and down in an aggressive nod, energy focusing on a pinpoint goal: survival.

"Good." Morrigan sounded pleased, but a shadow slipped through her eyes so quickly Hypetia almost believed it was imagined.  _ Concern? Fear? _ She couldn't identify the flash of emotion she had seen in those amber irises. The distraction blurred the edges of her focus, and she felt the madness creeping in around the edges of her subconsciousness. 

Hypetia snapped her head away from Morrigan to find the others standing close by, their expressions galvanized by what they had witnessed, both around them and within her. They needed her to be strong, to be a leader, to get them home. "Morrigan is right. We need to keep moving." Her voice sounded steady, and hearing it helped solidify her resolve. This was who she needed to be in the moment, reality be damned. She snatched her staff up from the ground where it had fallen when her mind had crumbled, and pushed on, a firm jerk of her head indicating that they should follow.

"Hypetia, are— are you alright?" Alistair was at her elbow, sword arm at the ready and eyes wary for threats. He kept his voice low, although with the tramping of boots behind them he needn't have bothered.

"Yes Alistair, I'm fine." Fine was a relative term, so she wasn't exactly lying to him. "We need to find Branka, resolve this nonsense with the Dwarven King, and get back to the surface."

"Do you want to talk about… everything?"

"No." She snapped at him, then bit her tongue when she saw the hurt in his eyes. She softened her tone. "I mean—" At her other side a whine alerted Hypetia to Hessarian's presence, cutting off her half-hazard reply, and she reached for his back instinctively, the warm, coarse feel of his fur against her palm making her feel grounded again. "I can't." She started again, voice almost a whisper. "Not until I see the sky again. I—" her voice broke, and she took a shaking breath. "If I stop to think about it too long I will break, and if I break I feel very strongly that I will die."

"I won't let that happen." He wore that charming, worried look like he had when she had first awoken in the wilds.

"I know," she gave him a weak smile. She did know; Alistair would put her life before his if the opportunity ever arose, and the knowledge burned against her skin like the lick of wildfire. Hypetia drew her shoulders back and her voice took on an authoritative tone she would not have thought herself capable of carrying. "I need you to speak to the others. Leliana, Oghren, Morrigan, make sure they're alright. I'm sure Shale is fine, Sten too, but it would be good to check in anyway. It should be me, I know, but I don't have the strength to do it."

"Of course." He nodded and, after giving her a final lingering look of concern, peeled away to do as she had asked. Hypetia could hear their voices behind her, individual words lost in the echo of footfalls and muted echo of the tunnel. She wound her hand tighter into Hessarian's fur and the enormous dog pulled closer to her, his great mass hugging her thigh as they walked.

"We just need to survive, boy." She whispered to him. "Long enough to save  _ them _ ." Her own death was inevitable, she knew, something not to be avoided but sidestepped until a more convenient time. It was perfectly logical to her that of the many companions at her side she would be the one to break: the weak link which would snap under its own poor forging. She was a trillium among oaks, and could hope for nothing more than to do what she could to strengthen their cause before her time ran out. Hypetia's fist tightened around her staff. The Amells may have been cursed, doomed from conception, but she would fight with everything she had, up to her final breath, to protect the forest around her from the flame of her existence.


End file.
